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7
I.
The rites were past of that auspicious dayWhen white-robed altars wreathed with living green
Adorn the temples;—when unnumbered tongues
Repeat the glorious anthem sung to harps
Of Angels while the star o'er Bethlehem stood;—
When grateful hearts bow low, and deeper joy
Breathes in the Christian than the Angel song,
On the great birthday of our Priest and King.
That night, while musing on his wondrous life,
Precepts, and promises to be fulfilled,
A trance-like sleep fell on me, and a dream
Of dreadful character appalled my soul.
Wild was the pageant:—face to face with Kings,
Heroes, and Sages of old note, I stood;
Patriarchs, and Prophets, and Apostles saw,
And venerable forms, ere round the globe
Shoreless and waste a weltering flood was rolled,
With Angels, compassing the radiant throne
Of Mary's Son, anew descended, crowned
With glory terrible, to judge the world.
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